


Disaster Preparedness

by SamanthaStephens



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, ButReallyBottom!Eames, Established Relationship, Hints of extreme violence, Hurt/Comfort, Inception Reverse Bang, Kidnapping, M/M, Multiple First Times, PTSD, Romance, bottom!Arthur, character in shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2548238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaStephens/pseuds/SamanthaStephens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames are tired of hiding their relationship and want to live in the open. So they put a plan into place to prevent their enemies from being able to extract information about one from the other. ... Naturally, it is put to the test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disaster Preparedness

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Inception Reverse Bang entry. All credit for inspiration goes to the amazing art by Chibifukurou, which completely captivated me, although I'd never seen anything like it and had no pre-existing brainstorm into which it could fit. A million thank yous and kudos, because I love it so much.

**Prologue:**

Fuck inception, this is without-a-doubt the most-difficult thing Eames has ever done in his life. 

Four weeks of Arthur's most-meticulous planning, complete with the usual degree of tetchiness about all the fiddly details. 

Four weeks of Eames stretching every creative muscle he has in order to invent, more-or-less out of whole cloth, three utterly believable, completely distinct, predominantly false backstories for the two of them. 

They fight. They fuck. They talk into the wee hours of the night. They sit in silence reading through mealtimes. They muck about in each others' minds for hours at a time. And all of it without a payout, desperately hoping that the fruits of their labours will never actually be required.

So this is what love is--really is--Eames thinks to himself at the close of one particularly invasive day. It's being willing to endure all these intrusions just  to protect each other.  No matter what happens going forward, we will always have this connection. We will always have the experience of complete and utter mental nakedness in front of each other whilst creating and building false histories for our relationship in order to hide the truths behind our real one. 

"Do you ever think it might be easier just to retire?" Eames asks one afternoon. 

It's the sort of subject he would likely have been afraid to raise before they started this project, but once you've been down to the deepest levels of someone else's mind with his full permission, it seems sort of silly to worry that he might be sensitive about a verbal question. 

"Someday, but not yet," Arthur replies. "I'm not ready to give it up. So we have to do this instead. Do you hate it?"

"No, but it isn't easy."

"You're just pouting because I saw that memory of when you pissed your pants at the playground, aren't you?" 

"Am not," Eames responds. "I was only four at the time! Hardly mortifying. I'm much more embarrassed about that frightful poem I wrote about the school handyman when I was 13. I can't believe all 16 stanzas are still lurking about down there." 

"You have never once written me a poem," Arthur deadpans. "I think I should be the one pouting in this scenario."

"I'm fairly certain I could rhyme waistcoat with punch to the throat somehow," Eames says. 

Arthur laughs and laughs and it breaks the gloomy mood Eames has been in all that day. 

On another night Arthur gets in a snit about Eames' vision for their top-level false history, the one that's most-obviously fake and intended mostly as a decoy so anyone picking through their brains won't realize that the second version they get after rejecting this one is false as well.

"I am _nothing_ like that," Arthur snipes, voice cold as ice. "Coy, simpering, little cockslut. Is that how you think people see me?" 

"Yes and no. No one who actually knows you could believe a moment of that story. But to an outside eye, someone who knows only your preference for finely tailored clothes and fussy nature about the finer details of research might make some assumptions," Eames responds diplomatically. 

He knows it isn't easy to look at another version of yourself through a stranger's eyes. He isn't exactly fond of his own role of somewhat simple-minded muscle in this version of their storytelling either. But he's also fighting off hurt feelings of his own and can't help saying:  "And anyway there's nothing wrong with being an inveterate cockslut now is there, darling?" 

Arthur's face softens, realizing what he's said. 

"No of course not," he reaches up and strokes behind Eames' ear. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way, babe. It was just the ... I seem so helpless in that version. I kind of hoped people found me terrifying." 

"Anyone who knows what's good for him does. But that's not whom that level is aimed at, is it?"

Later that night, because he's still feeling a bit prickly about it, he declines to let Arthur fuck him, which is probably the first time that's happened when he's not either too sick or too pissed to stay awake. 

"Eames," Arthur says, frowning. "Are you angry with me for what I said? Or is this some kind of internal issue you need to work out?" They are, after all, both accustomed to the way dreams can dredge up personal issues that one is trying to avoid.

"I know who I am and what I like and I'm entirely comfortable with that, Arthur," Eames replies. "What bothers me is the sudden feeling I get that _you_ think my preferences make me ... less respectable?"

Arthur looks stricken. 

"No, Eames. Not at all, God. I love making you happy in bed. I love how compatible we are. It's like nothing else ever. You are the deadliest, most-cunning cockslut in history, at least since Alexander the Great." 

"Oh yeah, prove it." 

So Arthur kneels down sucks Eames off, humming and moaning the entire time to show that there's no shame in being hungry for it. And he makes Eames come all over his face, which isn't even something that Eames has ever once wanted to do, but feels exactly right in the moment. Then he pulls Eames down to the floor and lets Eames ride him at an agonizingly slow pace. Eames draws it out for what feels like ages as Arthur bites his lip and clenches his fists, just barely holding himself together. When Eames finally speeds up to a ruthless pace that must be hell on Arthur's back against he cold cement, Arthur never once complains. 

A week or so later, when they're working on the second layer of false history, Arthur says Eames has created a fantasy version of him for the story, ironing out all the imperfections in the real thing. 

"What, are you accusing me of wanting to forsake reality and spend my days with a projection? I'm not Cobb. It's not even a temptation." 

"No, I just think I'm getting a glimpse of all the little things you would change about me if you could. It's not the most-pleasant feeling in the world, to be honest." 

"It's just a story, Arthur. A completely fictional creation. I'm trying not to think about the real you or the real me when I build these things. Just what someone might be willing to believe about us. I'm finding ways to mislead them based on their own pre-existing assumptions about who we are."

"Well that Arthur doesn't get too hot and sweaty to cuddle at night. And that Arthur has more definition in his upper body. And that Arthur is interested in soccer." 

"Yes, and he also snores. And he has a terribly over-bearing mother. Why, pray tell, would that be part of my fantasy?"

"Because deep-down I know you love the idea of having a difficult mother-in-law to win over, or at least for me to have a family to embrace you, rather than one that thinks I died in the field 10 years ago and you can never meet." 

Eames knows he should reassure Arthur that he isn't bothered that he'll never know Arthur's by all accounts unpleasant parents. But instead what he blurts out is, "mother-in-law?" 

"Yeah."Arthur replies, matter-of-fact.

"But we're not married." 

"We're as good as, aren't we?" 

"Are we?"

Arthur is incredulous. 

"Of course we are. Why the fuck else would we be doing all this? You think I would let anyone else into my deepest consciousness like this? It's so we can live together, have a life together, and not have to keep on pretending we barely tolerate each other every time we're on a job."

"So this is the world's most pain-in-the-arse wedding planning session?"

Arthur chuckles. 

"I guess you could say that." 

"Where's Jennifer Lopez?" 

"Huh?" 

Eames rolls his eyes. 

"I bet second-version Arthur would get that joke," Arthur says. 

"Yes but he also has this embarrassing habit of dramatically over-pronouncing foreign words, even going to far as to roll his Rs on burrito." 

Arthur snorts. 

"Well I guess he isn't completely perfect then. What a douche." 

"In all honesty, Arthur," Eames says, now that the hurt feelings seem to have been soothed a bit. "Yes, the second version is a little bit like the real us. Not the backstory, of course, but the way that Arthur and that Eames interact. To my mind they're there to serve not just as a hopefully believable lie for any intruders, but also as a reprieve in the event that one of us is forced to live through actually creating these false memories for an outside audience. If they've made it through subconscious security and past the first false version of us, then whichever one of us is unlucky enough to be put in that position will surely want the next attempt to be a bit easier to maintain."

Arthur squeezes Eames' hand.

"Smart," he says, nodding. "Really fucking smart."

 Eames doesn't like working on the third version at all. They're monsters in it. He's aware that what he and Arthur do for a living is far from ethical. But this false reality is designed to play up how deadly their natures can be in a dream and to scare anyone who has managed to delve that deep into thinking twice about playing with fire. 

This Eames doesn't even love Arthur, not in any traditional sense of the word. They've just developed a co-dependent operation for their shared sociopathy. He prays it will never come down to this.

Once he's perfected all three stories, Eames asks Arthur if their task is finally finished. 

"I think we should each have a few things stashed up our sleeves. Surprises. Something no one could ever get out of you, no matter what, because they'd never know to ask for it." 

"To what end?" 

"I'm not sure, really, it's just this feeling I have that keeping a few twists to ourselves wouldn't hurt. Something that I'll recognize as unquestionably you, but won't actually expect, just in case we're in a dream together with projections of ourselves running around, too, or forgers, which would be even worse."  

Eames isn't sure what sort of thing Arthur has in mind. He's used to being the creative one between them, but his mind is blank in this instance. 

He thinks of Arthur's shocking ingenuity during inception and decides to keep a dream elevator close to hand in every scenario, one that will ascend into thin air if need be. It'll be a private reference between them, since not even Cobb knows what Arthur had accomplished in the second level of Robert Fischer's mind. If his real Arthur needs convincing that he's the real Eames, the arrival of a mysterious a Roald Dahl elevator ought to do the trick. 

___

**18 Months Later:**

Eames is exhausted and his entire body aches, not to mention the sharp pain that's emanating from the region of his right eyebrow, where he must have a deep cut. 

He's fairly certain he's asleep. 

Although he can't see any part of himself, he feels the restraints tighten and loosen when he tries to shift his body into new forms. But he can't tell whether the damage is all dream-inflicted or whether he's feeling the residuals of a working over topside, as well. 

They haven't asked him anything yet, nor tried to take him deeper, probably hoping to wear him down enough here to make the mental invasion easy.This means they're very likely military, as it fits the protocol as he understands it. But he shouldn't think about that knowledge or where it came from, as it goes against everything he's prepared for this moment, the one he'd hoped would never come. 

As his consciousness fades, Eames feels vaguely glad it's him suffering under duress and not Arthur. That's pathetically soppy, he's aware. But it's also practical. Arthur is probably better connected to mount a rescue mission at this given moment. All Eames needs to do is hold out long enough for Arthur to track him down. 

...

The next time he awakens he's in dress blues, body gently rocking with the rhythm of a train. Manhattan, judging by the map across the aisle. The A if he's not mistaken. 

It's a memory then. ... And a damn good one. 

He emerges downtown, where Williams is waiting for him under the awning of a posh restaurant. 

"Alright, Eames," he says and Eames nods curtly. 

He's eager to have their supper plans over with and strike out on his own. By some unfathomable stroke of luck, they've found themselves docked in New York during Fleet Week and he aims to take as much advantage of the situation as possible. 

But first some tedious meal with Williams' sister and her flatmate, both of whom study ballet here. Eames could not possibly be less interested. And he has difficulty following the conversation as well with all their talk of composers and artists and the like. 

He honestly can't reckon why Williams invited him, other than some vague bottom-of-the-brain sense that Eames wouldn't ever try to get off with his sister. Eames is always a perfect gentleman with the ladies. The truth is they do nothing for him. But he can't have his mates knowing that. So he lets them think he's just a bit religious like, just enough that it has to mean something for him to go with a girl. 

The truth is, Eames can't wait to escape from this scenario and pound as much arse as he can get away with, preferably attached to some skinny little thing with big eyes and a baby face. He's half hard in his trousers just thinking about it. 

Two hours later, finally free, he wanders the streets, looking for a club some bloke had told him about a few months back. 

He finds the place, but it's too early yet, especially considering he's in uniform. He wants the advantage it gives him on the pull, but he doesn't want to talk to anyone sober enough to ask a lot of questions about it.

So he walks around the corner to a ridiculously glittery bar full of aquariums and velvet. This is another way the uniform helps. Eames is not a swank person, but he has a taste for posh boys when he can get them. When he's got his blues on, it hides the fact that he's a rough who can't dress for shit. Of course, some of them do like that ...

He orders a bottle of some crap American lager at the bar, which earns a skeptical eyebrow from the keep. He guesses it's a cocktail sort of place from the men standing around him drinking bright pink and yellow monstrosities.

He does a loop, chats up a cute blonde for a bit and offers to get them another round of drinks. He's waiting for service when a fresh bottle appears at his elbow and a voice purrs in his ear, "ditch Goldilocks and come talk to me."

Points for boldness, Eames thinks as he turns around ... and is completely gobsmacked.

This one is something else. He looks straight off of a film screen. Sloe-eyes, chocolate hair with just a bit of curl to it, obscenely tight jeans resting below his hipbones, shirt half unbuttoned, exposing a thin, but muscled, torso. And that voice, much deeper than you'd expect for a little slip of a thing like this.

Fuuuuuuuuuck, Eames thinks. Don't let me cock this one up.

The blonde's name is already forgotten.

It turns out this fellow, Artie something or other, is a model. 

"I was the toast of Fashion Week last year," he preens. 

Eames doesn't really know what that means, but he's obviously meant to be impressed so he clinks with Artie's glass and asks him about the job. Artie yammers on and on about people Eames has never heard of and places Eames has also been, but probably experienced in a whole different way to how Artie had--like Singapore and Dubai where Artie had been on "shoots" recently and Eames had visited while in port last year. 

He seems a bit empty headed, but who cares when the head is attached to that face and that body? Plus, it's not like Eames is exactly the scholarly sort himself. 

"So tell me," Artie asks, fingering Eames' lapel. "Is this uniform real?" 

Eames nods, "in her majesty's service." 

"Do you know how to fire a gun?" Artie asks, practically climbing into Eames' lap. 

Eames has no choice but to laugh. 

"I certainly do, pet. Would you like me to teach you?" 

"Oh yes! I think they're really sexy. I bet you look super hot shooting one off." 

Jesus this boy is going to kill Eames and they've hardly touched yet. 

"Although," he pouts. "I have to warn you, I'm not very good with my hands ... I'm much better with other things." 

At this he reaches under the table and palms Eames' half-hard prick. Christ. 

"Should we get out of here?" Eames whispers in Artie's ear. 

"Take me home with you," Artie responds. 

"Uh ... I don't have a home. I live on a ship in a bunk with a bunch of other blokes around and I'd catch a hell of a lot of trouble bringing you back there, if I even could get you aboard." 

"Oh ... well then I guess you'll have to come to mine. My roommate's home, but I'll tell him to get lost for a while." 

Artie's flat is in a smart building, although it's nearly as tiny as Eames' quarters. Eames isn't nearly pissed enough to make small talk with the roommate, a Russian who isn't too hard on the eyes, either. Eames wonders if he and Artie ever fool around when they're at loose ends. Christ, thinking about that is going to do him no favors. 

One foul candy-flavored vodka drink later and he's got Artie down on his knees and elbows moaning indecently while Eames licks him open. Eames can hardly wait to get inside him, but a world-class piece like this should get as much foreplay as he wants. Eames is willing to keep at it until his tongue goes dry if that's what it takes. Then maybe Artie will let him have a second go, maybe even come round again tomorrow night. 

But scarcely five minutes have passed before Artie is begging for Eames' prick. 

"Make me feel it, sailor boy," he says. "I don't want to be able to walk straight after." 

Eames flips Artie over and pulls him up into straddling his own lap, so they can kiss while they fuck. Also he likes the idea of watching that tight little body bouncing up and down on him. And bounce he does, like a goddamn sex-crazed Tigger from the children's stories. Eames takes to calling him "kitten" as he grunts out encouragement. 

"I want it harder, come on, give it to me," Artie cries out and Eames practically throws him back on the bed, bending his legs up to his ears before driving back home, pounding in as hard as he can. 

Fuck but this is the best Eames has ever had ... 

…

And suddenly Eames is waking up back in that cold, empty room. He can feel blood dripping down the side of his face and the pain has ratcheted up in the wound on his brow. 

A door outside his field of vision opens and closes with a heavy thunk and a man in a ski mask and gloves saunters into Eames' eyeline. 

"Do you expect us to believe that bullshit?" he asks, voice blandly middle American, straight off the telly. 

"What bullshit?" Eames counters. 

"That you and Arthur lived out some kind of gay porn fantasy for your little meet cute? Sailor on shore leave and international male model. Give me a fucking break." 

"Believe it or don't. Not my concern. I was just dreaming up an old memory to keep me warm in my time of need."

"Right and Arthur went from simpering idiot to deadly assassin under your tutelage at the gun club?" 

"I hardly think my relationship history is any of your concern, to be honest."

"Yeah, well, circumstances would indicate otherwise now, wouldn't they?" 

Eames clams up. He's got a inkling of what they're after with this scheme. The man waits his silence out for what feels like eternity, but is probably no longer than 20 minutes, before departing and being replaced by a second, slighter fellow. The "good cop," Eames supposes. 

"Look, Eames, we don't _want_ to hurt you," he begins. "And we don't want to hurt Arthur, either. We just need to know what he was doing before he started working with the Cobbs. Our intelligence says you met him before they did and we just want to follow that thread. We're looking for someone and Arthur's past may hold the key to finding him. You tell us what we need to know and we'll let you go. No harm, no foul." 

This confirms all of Eames' suspicions. And redoubles his resolve to give nothing away. 

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" he asks. 

"Do you honestly expect us to believe that that 'memory' was anything but a complete fabrication?" 

"I don't expect anything of you at all." 

The man rounds and punches Eames square in the jaw. So much for "good cop." 

... 

This time Eames awakens in the breakfast area of a mid-range hotel chain. He's watching a subpar teabag steep in a lukewarm cup of water and pretending to read the paper, but actually observing his fellow patrons. 

It's the day before his second-ever job in dreamshare and he's a bit nervous, enough so to have arrived early on the outskirts of town and set up in a bland hotel where he can learn his way around and read over his notes a few more times before officially joining the team in a freight railyard the next morning. 

His first gig was fairly small time, but this one is with the famous Arthur, no last name,  and the legendary Cobbs. How could he help feeling a bit terrified about making the right impression? Success here will make his career. Failure won't end it, but it will stall it out in the backwaters of dreamshare until he's earned the reputation for a second bite at the apple. 

Just then a guy strolls into the breakfast station all sweaty in his workout clothes and stands in front of the juice machine drinking glass after glass. The motion in his throat as he gulps awakens some pretty filthy thoughts in Eames' mind. Not to mention the man's arms, which are ridiculously strong, yet still perfectly in tune with his overall lithe appearance. 

The man moves with the grace of an athlete as he takes a seat on the other side of the room. No breakfast indulgence for this one, bananas and oatmeal. He's probably unspeakably dull, exercising eating right even when he's stuck on a work trip in Richmond, Virginia, of all places. 

But Eames can't help starring. God this guy is pushing all his buttons. His sleeveless, sweat-marked shirt even says UVA Soccer in bold letters. 

Eames wishes this were the sort of hotel with a bar, so he could arrange to bump into him in the evening. (Nevermind that Eames should certainly be getting a good night's sleep before his first day of work with Arthur and the Cobbs. This guy is hot enough that he might be worth risking career suicide.) But it isn't and it doesn't and there isn't anyplace obvious within the immediate vicinity, either. Also, he's probably straight. 

Although Eames has heard things about American football players being willing to experiment ... 

Perhaps he should run and change into his favourite jersey and hope the hot guy strikes up a conversation. Although there isn't really a smooth way to disappear in the middle of breakfast and reappear in new clothes. He could spill something on himself, but that wouldn't be terribly impressive, would it? 

Eames suppose he will just have to make do with some more surreptitious starring.

The following morning when a well-rested, slightly less anxious, Eames walks into the abandoned railroad storage facility, he's nearly bowled over to see none other than the hot guy from breakfast talking earnestly to a bearded blonde man, both in crisp dress shirts and ties, with shoes that won't possibly maintain their shine for long in this grimy, dust-coated place.

Eames doesn't bother hiding his surprise. 

"We're you staking me out, or was it just a coincidence we were at the same hotel yesterday?" he asks straight off. 

"Wouldn't you like to know?" the brunet asks, smirking. 

It turns out he's Arthur. Eames is half in love with him already. 

They work well together throughout the job. Eames tries to be on his best behavior, for professional reasons as well as foolish romantic intentions. 

But Arthur's dry wit prompts some occasional teasing from Eames; he can't bloody help it. Eames takes to calling Arthur pet names in response to every sarcastic comment Arthur sends his way. 

"Stop with your flirting," Mallorie Cobb says once as she floats by the white board that Arthur had hauled out here from God knows where and in front of which they are now arguing about, ahem discussing, the chances of this country ever actually putting together a truly great national football team. 

Eames blushes.

Arthur looks at the floor. Eames, who is usually so good at reading people, honestly can't tell whether it's embarrassment at being caught out or discomfort at Eames' obvious interest. 

But he doesn't have to wait long to find out. 

The following evening, Arthur asks him for a drink after work. 

He meets Arthur at a bland and utterly forgettable bar. Not a restaurant, just an unassuming little place that must be near Arthur's hotel, because Eames can't imagine why else he would have chosen it. He _hopes_ it's near Arthur's hotel, because it certainly isn't near his own and he desperately wants this evening to end up in bed. 

Arthur is already seated at a high-top in the corner, even though Eames isn't a minute late. Considerate of him. Eames likes that. 

They discuss the job for a few minutes, just to stay on familiar ground. It's difficult, because Eames wants to ask Arthur about his background and all the ordinary sorts of things one might discuss on a first date. But given the degree of secrecy recommended for their profession, Eames doesn't want to be rude or invasive. 

Instead he chooses to tease Arthur about the venue. 

"I must confess, this isn't the sort of place I'd imagined you frequenting. I pictured something much more stylish, but not fussy. Perhaps a bit hipster." 

Arthur smirks. 

"Stop profiling me," he says, tapping his foot against Eames' under the table in a friendly way. 

Eames responds with a look that clearly says, "make me." 

Arthur shrugs. 

"I didn't want to go anywhere we might be remembered by anyone. Not too empty. Not too neighborhood-y. Nowhere a fight is likely to break out or that anyone is going to try to start up a conversation or flirtation with either of us." 

"Caution in all things?" 

"Absolutely. I mean you must have similar thinking, staying in that chain hotel on the edge of town before the job." 

Eames blushes, and decides for honesty. 

"Truth be told, I was a bit nervous about the job, wanted some time to get my head straight before I started." 

Arthur smiles at Eames, clearly tremendously amused by this news. It's almost embarrassing, except that Arthur's dimples are sending warm sparks throughout Eames' body, so he can't really complain now, can he?

"That's adorable." 

"What about you then, will you tell me now whether you were doing reconnaissance on me or it was just a coincidence?"

"What do you think?" 

Eames knows the answer. No one as thorough as Arthur would ever allow for coincidences. 

"Didn't you trust me?" 

"I did for the most part. I do now. I just wanted to have the advantage when we met, to get an idea for what you would be like to work with, whether we'd want you on the team more longterm." He shrugs. "It's kind of my job." 

"I suppose this means you didn't actually play football at University of Virginia?" 

Arthur laughs and shakes his head.

"Shame, I really liked that about you."

"I did play in college though. Just not there. Never choose a cover you can't actually feel natural in, Mr. Eames. Not unless the circumstances are dire." 

"Where then?" 

"Do you think I'm going to tell you?" 

"I thought perhaps you might. As a sign of good faith, like." 

"Indiana," Arthur offers. "But don't bother trying to look me up. You won't find a picture."

"So I'll just have to take your word for it?" 

"Short of calling my mother and having her offer verbal communication, it's the best I can do." 

"What if I take you up on that?" 

"Please don't. She's still upset I didn't go to Stanford. You won't hear the end of it. I'll be heading back to my room and she'll still be talking your ear off about her son's many failures and how they all stem back to his decision to value soccer over academics." 

Eames laughs. He has no earthly idea if any of this is true, but it's funny and charming, so he doesn't particularly care. 

"I liked you noticing me at the hotel in my UVA shirt," Arthur says, brushing his calf against Eames', escalating things between them. 

"I'm afraid I was at a bit of a disadvantage in that situation. You knew who I was and that we'd be meeting each other soon after. I was stuck wondering if there was any way to find out your room number without the police getting involved." 

"Aren't you glad I wasn't just a ship passing in the night though?"

"Very glad, I'm just saying, I think you owe me for that bit of subterfuge and trickery." 

"I'm willing to negotiate," Arthur replies, resting his hand on Eames' knee under the table. 

"So is this bland, not too empty, not too neighborhood-y, not a chat-up scene bar also close to your hotel?" 

"It's not too far away," Arthur replies, his hand migrating to Eames' thigh. 

"Good because it's nowhere near mine, which I suppose, you being you, you already know." 

"I do, but listen, there's something I want to tell you first," he says, drawing his hand away. 

Eames looks suspicious. This is not the sort of thing one likes to hear from a man with whom one is planning to have imminent sex. 

"Cobb is going to offer you a permanent place on the team, if you want it. He's not planning on doing it until the day before the job, but I thought I should tell you, in case that ... affects your decision." 

"In case I'm not the sort to sleep with a co-worker?" 

Arthur nods. 

"To be frank, that seems like more your sort of hangup, not mine." 

Arthur smiles. 

"It usually is, but I'm willing to make an exception in special circumstances." 

"Oh? And what might those be?" 

Arthur stands and shrugs on his jacket. When Eames gets up, Arthur touches the small of his back and leans close enough to whisper in his ear: "When the co-worker in question is the best forger I've ever seen, and smart, and funny and has an ass that makes my mouth water and a mouth that makes me half-hard just looking at it." 

Eames feels a heat rising throughout his whole body. 

"Fuck I hope your room is close," he says, voice raspy with the breath caught in his throat. 

"It is," Arthur says as he guides them out the door. "But I'm not in any kind of rush. I want to take my time with you." 

Eames shivers. 

About a block away from the bar, Arthur pulls Eames into a sheltered doorway and kisses him. 

Eames is a bit of a romantic about first kisses. He tries to pay attention during them, catalog them. You never know when it might be your last first kiss. And if it is, you want to be able to remember it. 

As first kisses go, this one is just right. 

It's sweet, not insistent. Yet it isn't chaste, either. It feels like Arthur is trying to make a point by having it happen out here, instead of in his hotel room, where they'll hopefully be tearing each others' clothes off. And that Eames really likes. He presses against Arthur and really savours the experience, stops concentrating so hard. 

Speaking of hard ... Arthur is more than halfway there and he feels pretty big. 

Arthur pulls away and he's breathing audibly. 

"Jesus, you're hot. Let's get out of here. My car's around the corner." 

"Bastard. You lied about your hotel being close?" Eames says, but he's only teasing. 

"It's a very short drive. I promise." 

They kiss a bit more over the gearbox of Arthur's hired car before finally disentangling and getting on their way ... wherever it is that they're going. 

But Arthur is true to his word an within five minutes they're pulling into the underground car park at a sleek and shiny hotel, much nicer than Eames' own. 

"Are the Cobb's staying here as well?" he asks as they ride up to Arthur's room. 

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about Dom and Mal right now," Arthur says, pulling Eames toward him. 

They stumble out of the lift and down the hall, groping each other as they go. Arthur fumbles with his key card and then presses Eames against the inside of his door as soon as they've properly crossed the threshold. 

"I've an idea," Eames says as Arthur kisses down his throat. "I know you wanted to take your time with me, and I applaud that idea, I really do. But perhaps we ought to take the edge of first?" 

Arthur pulls back and looks at him. 

"What did you have in mind?" 

"Well you did say you've been thinking about my mouth ... "

"You will never have to ask me twice," Arthur replies, which doesn't entirely make sense, but Eames gets the gist. 

He leads Arthur back toward the king-sized bed and pushes him down to sit on its edge. Then he kneels in the vee of Arthur's legs and reaches up for his belt buckle. 

Arthur looks a bit dazed as he leans back on his elbows and watches Eames pull his prick out of his trousers and pants and give it a few strokes with his hand. But it's no matter if Arthur's mind isn't quite focused, because Eames is busy being distracted by excitement at the size of him. Christ, if things proceed the way Eames hopes they will--thinks they will--then he is going to feel it tomorrow. 

He takes Arthur's prick straight down with no preamble and does his best to drive Arthur mad over it, working his throat and tongue and lips with every trick he knows. 

It doesn't take long. It never does when Eames gives it his all. 

Arthur lies there gulping deep breaths for a few seconds before pulling Eames up to to straddle him on the bed. 

"Jesus, you are really fucking good at that," he says. 

Eames smirks and leans down to kiss him. After a few minutes he rolls them over so Arthur is pressing him into the mattress and wraps one leg around Arthur's hip. 

"Why don't you show me what you're really fucking good at then?" he challenges. 

Arthur laughs and starts to peel Eames' clothes off, covering him in nibbles and kisses as he goes. Eames is painfully hard at this point and absolutely aching to get off. But Arthur seems to be on a mission and Eames isn't going to interrupt it. 

"Over," Arthur says, tapping Eames' hip when he's finally naked. 

"I want to get you nice and wet," he says. "But I also want to make you come. Can you come from this?" 

He doesn't wait for Eames' answer before parting Eames' cheeks and licking in. 

"Fuuuuuuck yes, oh yes ... I can," Eames replies, already halfway there it seems. 

Some time later he comes spectacularly all over the coverlet and Arthur pulls back and switches to his fingers, aided by a little tube of slick from the night table. 

"Don't worry," Arthur leans over to whisper in his year. "I _am_ going to make you come again when I fuck you."

Eames can only whimper in response, cheek pressed flat against the bed. 

Eventually though he wants more, so he rolls over and presses his feet against the mattress, knees in the air, allowing Arthur's fingers to go deeper and for them to kiss at the same time. 

Arthur keeps at it long after Eames is technically ready, pressing and thrusting and scissoring and twisting up to three fingers until Eames is growing hard again. Even then, he makes Eames ask for it. 

"Are you being a gentleman, or do you just want to hear me beg?" 

"Mmmmm ... a little of both, I guess. Now tell me how you want it?" 

They start out with Eames on his knees and elbows and migrate to some sort of reverse cowgirl-type situation, sweaty skin sliding and slapping against each other, Arthur stretching and fumbling to help Eames jerk himself off, panting with exertion. 

Eames comes with a strangled cry ... 

... 

And wakes up back in that horrid holding cell. Dammit. He'd honestly been enjoying that little respite. 

The man is already in the room with him. It's the "bad cop," if Eames isn't mistaken, although he had spent close to three weeks in the last dream, so he could be wrong. 

"So you expect us to believe that our intelligence is completely wrong and that Arthur knew the Cobbs before the two of you ever met?" 

"That seems to be how I recall it, yes," Eames responds dryly. 

"It took us a while to figure you out, Mr. Eames. But we know you're lying. ... Yet again. For you own good, stop." 

Eames says nothing. 

"You don't know how long you've been down here, fighting us off with your subconscious security while we take you deeper, searching for memories of your meeting Arthur, or whatever he was called back then. Don't put yourself at any further risk. Tell us what we need to know." 

This must be the "good cop" after all, Eames thinks. Either that or they don't have a very good handle on their respective roles. 

"I'm touched by your concern, really I am," Eames says.

"We're going to put you under again, Eames. Do you know what that might do to you? Is Arthur really worth all this?" 

All this and more, Eames can't keep himself from thinking, even though he knows he shouldn't. 

"Suit yourself, Mr. Eames." 

"You'll be sorry," Eames grits out as he feels sleep overtaking him, already dreading what's coming. 

... 

He awakens to a vision of Arthur striding toward him through the haze of a desert, covered in ash and blood. Eames rarely experiences sexual urges, only murderous ones, but he is aroused by the sight of this magnificent creature. He walks to meet Arthur and without exchanging a word they embrace roughly, fighting for dominance in the sand, coming to completion against each others' skin more as a result of their combat than of any intimate contact. 

A threat is coming. He and Arthur can feel it in the air. They summon an army to them, although these men are not really necessary for anything but inducing hopelessness at the sight of their numbers. Arthur and Eames can conquer the invaders on their own.

When the threat arrives--when the men come the first time--Arthur cuts through them like they're made of jelly, which in a sense, they are. Eames surveys the field and notices two flanking from behind. He beats them with a rock until their brains are splattered in his own hair.

After the battle Arthur looks at Eames like he could eat him alive. Eames believes he probably could, but he doesn't intend to find out. He does let Arthur bite him when they fuck though. The sharpness of his teeth bring Eames over the edge more than once in the ensuing days.

They wait for the men to return and amuse themselves by sharpening their swords and knives, and by rubbing their bodies against each other. The two activities aren't all that different, really.

When the men come again, Arthur burns them alive and then rubs the rendered fat all over his body and his body all over Eames'. It's the best night of Eames' life.

But when the men come a third time, Eames and Arthur decide to capture rather than kill. They know the men won't keep returning to be slaughtered forever. So this time they tie them up in the desert sun, mark their skin with a hundred tiny cuts and leave them to bake. Then Arthur and Eames retreat to their tent at the oasis, where their men await commands that will never come, and taste each other in new and fascinating ways. In the cool of the evening, they pour water over their captives, leaving them shivering as the temperature plummets and the insects emerge from the sand.

The following day Eames and Arthur wake to begin their conquest anew. But something inexplicable has occurred. The men have disappeared from their bondage, vanished entirely.

They don't have to puzzle over this mystery for long, however, because a second Arthur appears like a mirage out of the sand.

The two Arthurs share a face. And they both carry menace in their eyes. And they both look at Eames as if he belongs to them. But yet they are still opposite in some deep down, indefinable way.

The new Arthur pulls out a gun and shoots his predecessor in the head.

Before Eames can leap forward and tear him limb from limb, he shoots Eames too. In the chest. As the blood flows from his body, this new Arthur clasps Eames to him, whispering kindnesses, promising to make it right. Eames doesn't understand, but he trusts him anyway.

...

Eames gasps awake, shaking with horror, gagging with the smell of blood and gore.

Arthur is there with him, pausing from picking the locks on his bonds to stroke Eames' brow and promise to have him free as soon as he can. 

Eames is flooded with relief. It's his Arthur. His real Arthur, finally come to rescue him. 

But almost immediately, suspicion sneaks into his head. This could be a forge. They could have given up on extracting from him by inducing memories--or false memories, he supposes it's safe to admit now--and decided to send him a false Arthur for a false rescue and hope he's too addled to notice. 

"Arthur," he starts, unsure how to broach the subject. How do you ask your boyfriend if he's real? But Arthur seems to have anticipated the problem. 

"Eames, baby, I'll do what I can to prove to you that I'm not a forge, but I'm asking you to trust me enough to follow me out of here." 

"Why not just shoot me then? Why bother freeing me first?" 

"I think ... I think it might be important for you to choose to do it yourself." 

Eames considers this. It seems sound on the face of it. 

He doesn't ask Arthur any questions, not trusting the situation enough to risk revealing something, just in case. Instead he sits still and waits as Arthur frees first his feet then his hands, and helps him attempt to stand. His legs go out from under him straight off, but Arthur pulls him back upright and they slowly walk together around the room as the feeling returns to Eames' limbs. 

Eames is lightheaded and needs to sit down after a bit. He doesn't want to go back to that awful half-reclined hospital trolley where his captors had bound him, so he goes straight down to the floor. 

Arthur removes a gun from his holster and sets it next to Eames. 

"I'm going to go up. We're only one layer deep right now. When you're ready, I'd like for you to follow me." 

Arthur has another gun on his ankle. He presses it to his head and shoots himself. And then something miraculous happens ... 

 

 

Rather than collapsing in a puddle of blood the usual way, brightly coloured triangles burst out of Arthur's head, and a white halo of shock waves surrounds it. Everything has brushstrokes on it, as if painted onto the air. 

Eames laughs. 

It's an incredibly obscure in-joke, one he is almost certain is from a real memory, not a false one. Truly only his Arthur would know to make this joke. It's ancient history between them, from the first time Arthur had taken Eames under. 

Eames had been giddy with the possibility of it all and was behaving like a schoolboy. Arthur had created a gorgeous wintery landscape for their first dream and Eames had gone to take a slash across the pure white snow, truly the most immature way to mark one's territory.  At Arthur's disapproving frown, however, he'd instead sprayed the ground with paint, creating a little Jackson Pollock-scape amid the blinding whiteness. Arthur couldn't help but be impressed. 

Eames grabs the gun and shoots himself before he loses the courage. 

He awakens with Arthur crouched next to him, relief flooding his face. ...  His face. Eames loves this face. That much he knows for certain. 

He's tied up on a cot in a mechanic's garage and there are five dead men on the floor. 

"Don't look at them," Arthur says, pressing his forehead against Eames'. "Look at me. They don't matter." 

He knows that as ruthless as Eames can be in dreams, Eames hates anyone getting killed in reality, even those who richly deserve it. 

Eames can feel shock coming on. He's starting to shake as Arthur undoes his restraints and helps him sit up, rubbing his limbs to ease the feeling into them. 

"What will we do now?" he asks with a shaky voice.

"Leave," replies Arthur, matter-of-fact in this as he is in everything. 

"But ... cleanup ... fingerprints ... "

"I'll come back and take care of it later," Arthur interrupts. "No one is going to come sniffing around here in the meantime." 

Eames feels skeptical, but he doesn't have the clarity to express it properly, so he allows himself to be led outside to a nondescript sedan, where he crumples in the back seat. Part of him is embarrassed to be crying in front of Arthur. Another part just does not give a fuck. 

Arthur drives them to a house that can't be very far away, pulls into the garage and leads Eames up to the back door as calmly as if they'd been living there for years. 

Eames sits on a strange bed in an unfamiliar-smelling home sipping  a bottle of water and trying to control himself as Arthur checks his pupils and his pulse and feels for bruises and internal bleeding. He tries to muster a joke about Arthur groping him, but gives up. 

"Hospital?" he asks, instead. 

Arthur is frowning. 

"Your wrist is likely fractured, probably from falling. And you've got some bruising on the ribs and some cuts where the bindings dug into your skin. But nothing internal, so I think we can wait on that for a while. Do you remember how they took you? Must not have been too violent." 

"No," Eames says flatly. "I remember ... a cafe?  ... Having a quiet supper alone ... eager to get on a flight home ... then, waking up down there in that interrogation room. ... Don't even remember how they bested my security ... "

Arthur looks so angry. And also terrified. Eames is glad, because he doesn't have the energy for it at the moment, but he knows someone ought to feel those things.

"Drugs probably ... I'd like to sit tight here for a bit ... make sure you know you're in reality before taking you to a hospital where they might make you stay overnight."

Eames doesn't say anything just yet. He's fairly certain this is all real. But he can't quite bring himself to voice it. 

"Why don't we get you cleaned up," Arthur says. If he's offended, it doesn't show, and Eames knows how to read Arthur like a book. Or he does when he's in his right frame of mind anyway. 

Arthur helps Eames strip off in the en suite and then asks if he'd like to be alone while he bathes. It very nearly breaks Eames' heart and he shakes his head a bit too vigorously in reply, causing it to throb.

He's so cold. He knows it's from shock. But he keeps turning the water up hotter and hotter, until it must be scalding Arthur's skin as he  washes Eames' hair so gently, feeling his scalp for cuts and bumps. Eames almost enjoys it. Almost. 

Afterward, Arthur bundles him into a dressing gown and then joins him under the covers of that strange bed, leaving a few inches between them. 

"As soon as you're warmed up, I'll set your wrist and wrap up those ribs and then you can rest," he says.  

"Where are we, anyway?" Eames asks, finally starting to feel like he can express himself properly. 

"The home of Charles and Lydia Miller. They're on vacation in Bermuda."

Eames actually manages to laugh. 

"Aren't you concerned about the neighbors?" 

"They're frequent Air B&B hosts. No one will know that we weren't actually official guests until we're long gone." 

"You might be a genius." 

"So ... do these questions mean you're feeling better?" 

Eames tries to turn to face Arthur, wincing as he realizes he can't do so without putting pressure on his wrist. He rolls back. Perhaps it's best to have this conversation facing away from each other anyway.

"I ... I'm almost certain that this is reality. You are far too good to be a forgery. Even for me. And I know, I know, Arthur that I love you. With everything that I am. It's only that ... I'm having some trouble recalling which memories are from our real life together and which ones were created for the dreams ... I'm so sorry, I ... ""

"Hush, Eames. You have nothing to apologize for. You were so fucking brave and you did it, everything we planned for, you pulled it off." 

Arthur moves to embrace him, spooning up against Eames' body. He must have been restraining himself until he was certain he'd be welcome. 

"Tell me, please. Tell me how we really met," Eames asks. 

"Once upon a time," Arthur starts. Eames can hear the smirk in his voice. Despite all they've been through, he clearly enjoys telling this story. "You were an up-to-no-good scoundrel who worked as a fixer for a law firm that was much too evil for your small-time criminal tendencies. And I was running early dream heists with some other ex-military guys after being booted from Project Somnacin in the wake on an op that went so fubar that the Corps forced me to fake my death and hit the road, so as to never connect Uncle Sam with what had happened. You stumbled on one of my gigs while trying to track down a missing client and became obsessed with the idea of the PASIV, even if you didn't totally understand it yet, not really." 

Some of this Eames remembers on his own, some of it comes back to him as Arthur speaks. 

"So you quit your job. Good riddance to it. And you set out to find me and learn about dreamshare. You tracked me around the globe and I was impressed despite myself, so I let you find me in Singapore and promised to take you into a dream and perhaps to help you find a job if you were any good."

"Was I any good?"

"You were a natural. I know you remember what you did to the snow, because you followed me here. I'd never seen anything like that. And when I decided to explain forging, you did it without effort, something I'd never been able to manage beyond a change of clothes. Well, obviously, I had to hire you for myself." 

"And then what happened? You kicked me out of the dream and ravished me on the spot?"

Arthur laughs. 

"Not even close. I thought you were hot, but I didn't want to let anything happen. I'd already taken a huge risk bringing you into dreamshare as it was. I didn't think you were interested, anyway. I'd figured all the flirting was just an effort to win me over and get work." 

"I think I remember ... Stockholm?" 

Arthur squeezes his hip gently, conveying pleasure at Eames' progress. 

"We hadn't worked together in nearly a year. I'd trained you up and released you out into the world and heard reports of your brilliance at every turn. ... And I missed you terribly. I didn't know how much I would until we were working apart. For months I'd been desperate to work with the Cobbs, who were cutting away from the rest of the field with their brilliance. And you'd already done a few jobs with them and brought me in, repaying the favor of that first session. After the job I'd planned to stay in Stockholm for a few days, because the risk was low and the summer was high and the city was beautiful. And I ran into you after lunch outside a little cafe in Södermalm. Years later you confessed to having tracked me there, just like you'd done in the good old days before I brought you into dreamshare. But I believed it was a coincidence at the time. And we spent this great afternoon together shopping and walking and talking about the past year. And then we went to this bistro for supper and had a few too many cocktails and ... we stood on this bridge near the palace looking at the city. I was incredibly nervous about it, which was not my usual style with boys, and I probably seemed like a total spaz, because I was so mad at myself for being scared.  And then when we finally kissed and I swear to God, the sky opened up and soaked us to the bone. It was like we'd made Mother Nature impatient or something. I mean I don't believe in that shit, but I could've in that moment. So we went back to your hotel room and I don't think we left it again for about 24 hours ... "

"I ... I remember it now that you say it. It just all got so mangled up in my mind ... But I remember ... I remember when we parted at the airport and how foolish I felt that I was just aching for you to invite me to come with you, but thought it would be too pathetic to just ask ... "

"Well it made our reunion in Barcelona the next month all the hotter, didn't it?"

"You told me when I arrived ... that we had to keep it strictly professional during the job and then you showed up outside my door on the second night, practically begging to fuck me." 

"It was like torture being so close to you all day and not being able to taste you at night." 

Eames laughs, but is then overcome by gratitude that he can recall any of this at all. 

"Arthur ... thank you for coming to my rescue. For being so patient." 

"Eames," Arthur's voice is stern as he crawls to the other side of the bed so they can see each others' faces. "That has always been the plan. We promised that we would always find each other. And anyway, what you did ... it was much harder. I mean Jesus, Eames. You were down there for five days! I was so scared you'd be completely scrambled when I found you ... " his voice catches and he trails off. 

Eames opens his mouth to respond, but Arthur signals for him to wait. 

"I ... I wanted to talk about this after taking care of your wounds but ... Eames I want to retire. Do you think you could retire? I just can't stomach the idea of this happening again. I swore up and down that if you came out of this OK, I'd never do another job."

"But retiring won't keep us safe. People can still find us. And you love the work. I know you do." 

"Eames, do you really think I don't love you more? We can go live somewhere off the grid for a bit then start fresh with new identities. Yeah, someone might still find us, and we'll have to keep in practice of dreaming with each other just to be able to protect ourselves. But ... it was me who put you into this shit. I did this to you. If I hadn't been involved in that terrible op ... no one would have hunted you down and tried to extract it from you and I just want to run away and give it all up and stay safe together." 

Eames considers this for a bit. 

"Arthur, I'm not really in a state to make any promises right now. But I'm certainly not inclined to do any dream work anytime in the near future, either."

Arthur honestly looks like he might cry from relief. He leans forward and brushes his lips against Eames'. 

"OK, I can live with that," he says. "Let's get you patched up and get a good night's rest and then run off somewhere safe for a while and figure it all out when you've had some time." 

**The End**


End file.
